Bowen laid his hands on the table. His right index finger lightly tapped on the linen cloth. “Anger management is a difficult discipline, as I’m sure you well know,” he began. “Especially with teenagers. Especially today. Young people mistrust their elders. They’d believe the word of a fellow teen-however ill informed-over the word of an experienced adult.”
“That’s nothing new,” Dillon said.
“True, but with the additional pressures of a complex, sensory-rich society with every fantasy, every wish, able to be fulfilled, keeping young adults focused on their own health and safety-as opposed to the take-what-you- want-when-you-want-it attitude prevalent today-is an almost impossible task for parents. Add to that dilemma the situation of rich kids with distant parents, physically or emotionally, and you have a recipe for disaster. In my practice, I deal almost exclusively with teenagers who have problems with their parents and their teachers-in essence, those in authority over them. I realized this when I started taking cases from the court with youth who vandalized property, acted out against people in a rage, anything that stemmed from anger. And these weren’t the underprivileged, but kids with means and education.”
Bowen was on a roll. “Take the issue of cutting. You know what that is, correct?”
“Of course. When people, usually young teens, mutilate their bodies in order to feel pain.”
Bowen shook his head. “Partly, but you’re focusing on the
“I understand, but what does cutting have to do with Wishlist?”
“Cutting is anger management. They can’t release their feelings, or they don’t know how to release them, so they turn inward. It’s empowering. Just like yelling at your parents or vandalizing the school. They get a brief high. But each time, they need to go deeper, hurt longer. If they can’t control it, they’ll self-destruct.” Bowen sipped his drink as the waiter cleared his dishes.
“So you started Wishlist for people who cut themselves?” Dillon said.
“Originally, several years ago I put together a small online group of cutters. I felt they would benefit from talking to each other. And I was right. The results one-on-one were far better after the anonymous group therapy. So I expanded Wishlist to include all teens with anger management or emotional control issues, which is really the same thing. A teen who lashes out in anger has the same basic problems as a teen who turns to promiscuity to solve problems. They don’t feel as if they are in control of their destiny.”
“There are a thousand underlying reasons for self-destructive teenagers. You can’t put them all in the same category.”
“I understand that, Dr. Kincaid,” Bowen said, irritated that he’d been contradicted. “But together they see that others have problems
“Kids counseling kids.” Dillon couldn’t hide the disdain in his voice.
“I supervise the list,” Bowen insisted. “I use the information in my practice and work with other teens experiencing the same problems. It’s the same principle as group therapy.”
“Except there’s no professional supervision.”
“It’s anonymous.”
“You’ve gone online. You’ve read the messages.” It wasn’t a question.
Bowen acknowledged the fact. “Just to observe or to provide prompts.”
“Like how they would kill those who hurt them.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s about getting rid of the anger in a safe and anonymous environment in order to move on and heal.”
Dillon said, “So when Emily Montgomery wrote that she wanted to kill Judge Montgomery by making him choke on his penis, that’s healing?”
“I didn’t know the message came from Emily. It was anonymous.”
“But you saw the message.”
He hesitated. “Yes. But-”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“It’s therapy. And there was no threat. It was a fantasy, nothing more.”
“It’s a secure server that you need a password to join and is monitored by a licensed psychiatrist who should know better than to put a group of mentally imbalanced young people into a group to talk about murder.”
“That’s not the purpose, Kincaid. You’re only looking at one message out of thousands.”
“And where would those messages be kept?”
“Nowhere.”
“You don’t retain them?”
Again, he hesitated. “Not for the long term.”
“Any other messages you remember that you might want to make the police aware of? Any other threats?”
Bowen stood. Dillon had crossed the line. “I wasn’t aware that I was the subject of a police investigation.”
“I’m trying to help Emily.”
“Hmm.” Bowen looked down his nose, trying to use his height over the sitting Dillon to intimidate.
Dillon stood.
“What do you know about Paul Judson?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
But Bowen wasn’t looking him in the eye. Dillon knew he was lying.
Bowen went on the offensive. “Perhaps you’re the one on the wrong side here. Have you thought that perhaps Emily acted out her own fantasies? She is a violent, emotionally distraught girl who has never recovered from her father’s sudden death. She has a verbally abusive mother, and her stepfather was attempting to fill a role that emotionally she couldn’t handle. You can’t overlook her potential involvement.”
“And do you believe Emily was involved in Paul Judson’s murder as well?”
Bowen looked at him blankly, but Dillon didn’t forget his original reaction.
“Do you have a list of everyone you invited into the group?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t give it to you without a court order, Dr. Kincaid.”
Dillon started to leave, then turned and said in a low voice, “You should have your license pulled. Giving your patients essentially the right to counsel each other. You’ve created a forum for anger to fester, not diminish.”
“You’re wrong, Dr. Kincaid.”
“No, I’m not.”
FIFTEEN
Connor parked outside Emily’s private college preparatory high school in La Jolla. It was after two and the kids were still in class.
Emily had given him a list of her friends, surprisingly short for an attractive, smart girl like Em. The school wasn’t large-maybe a thousand students in all four grades-but it was meticulously maintained and looked like a small version of an Ivy League university. A place rich parents sent their kids.
There were a handful of girls on the list, but the one Emily said she was closest to was Wendy Roper, whom she’d known since early childhood. Connor had a description of the girl and her car, and waited until classes let out at three. Ten minutes later he spotted Wendy, a dark-haired beauty, tall and lanky, and dressed impeccably. He followed her to the parking lot to verify her identity and as she was about to get into a sporty red compact, Connor called out. “Wendy?”
